That same week, she booked a consultation with a dermatologist a friend had recommended. It wasn’t for a drastic change, but to restore her sense of composure. The doctor calmly outlined a course of treatments, explaining that the results would come from consistency, not a single visit. Eleanor agreed to a schedule that fit neatly into her new routine. Her plans no longer revolved around someone else’s meetings and secret phone calls.
That evening, alone, she took out the fateful teardrop pendant and held it between her fingers. The stone caught the light from her desk lamp, holding it within, as if to say that even a tiny space could contain an entire room. Eleanor placed the necklace back on its velvet cushion and closed the box. She didn’t want to assign unnecessary meaning to objects, but she liked to think of it as a simple reminder. Everything that could have slipped through her fingers was now safely locked away.
Mark asked that night if she needed a driver for the next day. Eleanor replied that she would manage on her own. He nodded and turned back to his laptop. His fingers flew across the keyboard, but now there was a tension in their rhythm. The conversation didn’t happen, and Eleanor didn’t push it. She returned to her lists, double-checked her appointments with the notary and the lawyer, and reread the terms of her bank agreements. Each checkmark next to a line item was another brick in the wall she was building—not against someone, but for herself.
Now that Eleanor’s days were governed by a single, carefully crafted purpose, her thoughts and actions became as precise as the hands of a well-made watch. She was composed, cool-headed, and moved with an inner discipline and the certainty that the outcome would be in her favor.
Meanwhile, Mark’s life was descending into a spiral of stress. Promises made to his mistress clashed with company business, pressure from partners mixed with anxiety about his reputation, and any stray word could ignite a scandal. Everything that had once seemed manageable was shattering into chaotic fragments, and each new day brought only more exhaustion and irritation.
Amber acted as if she owned the office. She had long ceased to be the quiet assistant who sorted documents and brought coffee. Her pregnancy had made her the center of attention, and she skillfully exploited her position. Every morning, as soon as Mark walked in, he was greeted by the same scene: Amber at her desk, a hand resting on her stomach, her face a mask of weary suffering as she listed her ailments.
— I feel awful, — she would say, her voice heavy, as if describing a global catastrophe. — I was nauseous all night. I barely slept. You understand, I need special care.
Mark would nod, averting his gaze, and ask her to get to work. But work was increasingly taking a backseat. Instead of reports and emails, travel brochures, jewelry catalogs, and lists of exotic foods began appearing on his desk.
— I’m craving crab, — she announced one day, casually tossing a printout from a trendy restaurant menu in front of him. — I need the protein. You don’t want the baby to be malnourished, do you?
The next day it was fresh mango, then lychee, guava, and dragon fruit. A week later, she started talking about a trip:
— I need to go to the islands. I’m so tired of this air, this grayness. I could relax there, and the sea air would be good for the baby. You understand, it’s not a whim, it’s a necessity.
She pronounced the word “necessity” with special emphasis, as if it were the ultimate tool of pressure. Mark grew quieter. He could feel his stable world slipping through his fingers. Each of Amber’s whims led to new expenses. He could have afforded the gifts if they weren’t accompanied by constant risk. Amber didn’t just ask; she demanded. If he refused or tried to delay, she went on the offensive.
— You don’t love me, — she’d snap, her eyes full of reproach. — You’re willing to take care of your wife, who doesn’t need anything anymore, but you think of me, the mother of your child, last.
Mark would try to reason with her, talking about negotiations, partners, and the demands of the business. But Amber wouldn’t listen. She would raise her voice, clench her fists, and throw folders on the floor. Twice, her behavior escalated into full-blown hysterics, sobbing so loudly that the entire office fell silent. Employees would turn to their screens, pretending not to notice, but the gossip spread like wildfire.
Mark felt he was losing control of the situation. He tried to think rationally. On one side was Eleanor, his wife, with whom he shared assets, years of his life, and joint ventures. On the other was Amber, young and demanding, but carrying his child. He knew that if Amber went public, his reputation would be destroyed. He remembered the years when his name was synonymous with reliability. Partners trusted him; he was a man of his word. He could maintain his composure in any situation and win every negotiation. Now, a single word from Amber could shatter that image.
She threatened him:
Comments are closed.